Post Existential dry heaves

I was just reading Sartre's Nausea. "What the hell do you mean?" I kept screaming. Because although I got it, intellectually, yeah yeah, categories dissolve into the essence-less existence, I didn't really get the point. The emotion. Then I thought, maybe I'm post existential. Because everything that seems to be hitting you as a revelation, I've pretty much always taken for granted anyway, or for so long that I can't remember any other mindset. What can you do with philosophy these days? In this information age? Try in vain to clear the tetris blocks of reality? I guess, if that's what floats your boat. Rock on! Snack on cheese, the X factor. The nihilistic provolone made it across the county line, damn those duke boys!

Now I'm drinking beer. It's dulling my senses a bit, and diffusing the mania. Maybe I'll keep a slow burn going for the rest of this evening. Was driving myself insane because I couldn't focus on anything, and felt compelled to. That empty energy.

There could be titanic revelations coming for me, get out of jail plot twists, golden tickets to the chocolate factory... but more and more, I feel increasingly entwined in society with all its bullshit. An illusion of wisdom scabs over my eyes like a cataract. I don't really believe in "maturity", "wisdom", or even "enlightenment". And if it's all one big Dao, that seems a dour and dull cosmos, to me. Yin and yang, is that all we got? Hallucinogens had me bullshitting about seeing colors beyond the spectrum.

Hey, there's always salvia. I gotta admit, it's a confounding deja-thread. Drugs are bullshit, I don't believe in them anymore either, and they make me sad and sick... but there's still a child-like charm in getting so messed up I don't know what I am anymore. Yeah, still prattling on about drugs. Serving my life-sentence with no possibility of sobriety, no going back to pristine thought, forever tainted from here on out, forever Faust. Ah, mythology. That's bullshit too.

Movement 2, Andante dolce, Gretchen to the rescue. Hey, that's what I should be writing about. Gretchen as Britney Spears. I can't wait for her autobiography. After her brief stint as the CEO of scientology. The hell with Katie, Britney was my first love. I got a soft spot for the blonds. The teen queen. Just the right chemical composite, that plastic epidermal alloy. You inspired some lusty poetry from me, but it always had that extra layer of meaning, that American merit-badge, auto-neurotic asphyxiation, lethal sexuality, Lynchian deathgrip slipped from my clenched fist, the malt liquor in my milkshake, the satellite-uplinked parasite engorged at the bottom of the straw. Yeah, that'll do I guess. And other Hippie Craque like tendencies.

This is making me nostalgic for when writing counted, when I was a writer, when I didn't exist! Ha, so Sartre did something for me after all. Gave me a vocabulary for the wordless, anyway. Nobody can really cure the nausea, all you can do is become it, eliminate the subject/object dichotomy and subversively affect some other poor bastard with your retch-inducing essence. Heave ho - it's off to work we go!